Survival
by Keela Adoette
Summary: It's Harry James Potter's seventeenth birthday, and he's come into his Inheritance. It's terrifying, otherworldly, and far too exhilarating for a mere "mortal" such as he ...
1. The Dark

**Survival**

**I**

...

..

.

The first time Harry realised that he was no longer a child, he was four years old and nursing his injuries from his first beating, thanks to Uncle Vernon.

He was sixteen now, and in a mere three minutes the clock would mark midnight; his seventeenth birthday. It was supposed to be a time of joy; happiness. Of contentment and hope for the future - powers hidden come to light, the start of wizarding adulthood; the ability to use magic whenever he pleased.

He only felt empty now, as he realised he had no family (or one that would care for him, and he them), no one in this cold, white-walled room of his to share his Inheritance (should he even have one; it wasn't a given, though Merlin knew what was special in him, the supposed "Boy-Who-Lived".) The chances of his coming into power were unlikely, given the odds; yet he, in being Harry Potter, defied all odds.

Just a boy. An average, scared little boy …

He checked Dudley's old watch again, a large crack shattering the beautiful face of it. Dimly, it read: _11:59. _

He wondered if it would even make a difference. _After all, _he mused, _I'm just one person. If the whole Order failed - the entire wizarding world! - what could I do? _What could I possibly do?_ Fail. Only fail, and let innocents die in the name of "glory", of retribution, vengeance and belief. False belief. _

Harry shifted uncomfortably on his thin mattress. Gave a sigh, a glare into the pitch black.

He hated Dumbledore. He'd never tell, of course - imagine the outcry - but the man was … manipulative. Harry preferred the enemy that he could see; could tell. _Know. _Not this … this _act _that the Headmaster gave off. This grandfatherly pretence. And, oh, how the "My boy" saying grated on his nerves.

_My boy,_ as if he was a possession; a trophy to keep. As if he _owed _the man! Anything! He'd taken his parents (yes, he had; the reign of Voldemort began with a young Tom Riddle, ignored as Harry was, ignored and left to rot - _rot as vermin_ \- by him! He, the supposed Leader of the Light); he'd left him to the Dursleys - and - and - _Oh, god, _if that didn't hurt as a Crucio a thousand times over -

Here. _Right here, _in a place he was not wanted, not seen, did not belong - _wouldn't want to belong! Not in this "normalcy" …_

He. Did. Not. Owe. Dumbledore. Anything!

_12:00._

It didn't matter anymore. Nothing did. It was just he, Voldemort, and the end in sight. Just the clock, ticking down, _tick-tock, tick-tock …_

And then the pain began. A fire in his soul, an icy current in his veins, flashing hot, _burning _-

It was electricity coursing through him, hair standing on end. It was drowning, the panic consuming, the water filling his lungs, _dragging at him with grasping, pale claws, _and no-one was here to save him, no-one saved the Saviour.

_God help me …_

He spasmed. Fell from his bed. Heard, through agony-dulled ears, "Quiet, boy!"

Prayed.

Stop. Please stop. Stop hurting.

Groaned as his back arched, as his hands dug into his skin - or was it the floor? He couldn't tell. Couldn't breathe. See. Feel anything but the darkness sliding over him, infiltrating him; sucking him in, shred by terrifying shred. Eating him, tendon by tendon, fission by fission.

Jaws. Clamping. Harry dug his nails into his sweaty palms. Gave a muffled scream, pressed into the ground. The dirt. Dirt like him, like dust in the wind, torn away as leaves to the sea, as life to the hungry volcano; red, fiery, unstoppable.

"Boy, I'm warning you! God help me, one more sound - " Vernon thundered. Thundered, as lightning amongst clouds. _Snap. Crash. Boom. _Yes. As lightning to the helpless, the creatures - tearing. Striking. Destroying.

Yes. _God help me, _he'd said. _Help me. God help me. _

Harry's eyes shot open, revealing dilated pupils, blood-shot scleras. Black, black lashes. Ebony like the abyss …

Watered eyes. As the _sea _in his _lungs -_

Liquid in his lungs, sun in his throat. It was sand, slashing across his throat. _Scraaaaaaping. _He swallowed his tears. His blood? Blood of electricity. _Zip-zap. Snap dash. Crash boom. _

A bubble of hysterical laughter choked its way out of his throat, his rose-stained teeth. Was this how he was to die? On the floor of Dudley's ex-toy-room, surrounded by … _nothing? _By the hate of his relatives, the weight of the future settled heavy across his thin, bruised shoulders?

_At least, _he managed a grin, _at least Dumbledore won't get his way. _

A wave of agony crested and fell upon him, leaving him writhing and twisting on the floor. Harry growled, snarled, snapped - _roared, _a distorted cry of pain, rage and regret. Despair. Not like this … not in the dirt, with nothing. With no-one to smile down at him through a tear-streaked face - wanting him! Him! - and whisper softly, "It's okay. I love you, Harry James Potter. Do you hear me? _I love you!_" To shake him, to hug him. Embrace him … one last time … the first time.

Not. Like. This.

He clenched his teeth. He would be strong. He'd _always been _strong. He'd survived! Survived the Dursleys, the public, Voldemort. Survived betrayal, loss, hate, revenge. Survived it all! _The whole goddamn world he'd survived, _and he'd not give up now. The muscles in his jaw pulled taut. Iron flowed through his veins, and with an animalistic instinct he poured his strength, _his very magic _(soul!) into his form. Imagined that mass of black that even now he felt grinding against his bones. Saw it. Saw the joy it had as it ate, ate, ate. As is _changed him -_

It had one thought, one thought alone: _survive. _

Yes. Survive. This mass … was changing him. For the better? Maybe. But it was killing him too, pulling too much, taking too much, _more than he had. _

_It had to stop, _he knew. So he pulled himself from the floor - peeled, truly - and steadied himself on trembling arms. Closed his eyes and gave into the darkness.

_Oh, god, _it was beautiful … and so utterly, indescribably _powerful. _How had he never seen it before? How could anyone not see the glory of it?

It paused; pivoted. Eyed him. Judged him, he knew, though not how. There was a _whoosh, _the huffing of its very mass. _Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Thump-thump. _

That self-same animal instinct rose up within him once more, gnawing and straining. _Quick! _it yelled. _Quick!_

Harry pulled in a breath, felt his heart stop. He grabbed his magic, the last of it (of everything he had left) and offered it. (_What was he doing? No!_ a part of him yelled, but it was ignored in favour of self-preservation.) Offered it to the fire, the water, the electricity. Offered it to the very universe.

It shifted with curiosity. Drew in close, and he couldn't help but tremble before the otherworldly beast.

"Yes?" it asked. "You?" it questioned. There were no words, only a presence; a feeling of _knowing. _

_Exhale. _Harry drifted closer. Closer still, until it felt as if the dark encompassed him, as if he himself was a part of it (he! He, Harry, part of its magnificence).

"More?" The space shimmered. "More?" Stars were born, exploding into existence.

"Yes," he promised. "More." He gave in (not _up, _not ever up) and showed it. Showed the Dark his life. All the abuse, the neglect. The false promises and enticing words. The lies, the truth. The small glimpses of happiness. Every harsh word, every rebuffed gesture. He told the Dark, and the Dark listened. Listened to his woes. Watched as Harry failed, as he succeeded. The Stone. Basilisk. Sirius. The Goblet. The Order. The Prince. Dumbledore. Voldemort. Dursleys. Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Ginny … every memory, emotion, thought …

It ended.

Harry waited.

And then the Dark asked, "Sorry? Always?"

Harry paused. The animal within slowed warily. This was dangerous … this question …

Space and time paused, rocked within their very cradles.

It repeated, "Sorry? Wish anew?"

Harry, ever-so-carefully, replied, "Yes." His voice was strong. As strong as he'd always been. _As he'd always secretly been._

"Yes … " the Dark mused. "Sorry is not enough," it said, far more eloquent than it'd appeared to be. Harry quaked; his body went limp in terror. His puppet strings snapped. _Crash, snap, boom, zap. _"_Sorry,_" it hissed, "doesn't change the past, the countless hours wasted. The overwhelming despair of a child within the dark - and not _my _dark, not in the slightest - of a cupboard." It came closer. A tendril of shadow and smoke, of star dust and dark matter gripped Harry's chin. Gently - G_ently! _Harry nearly cried out - it lifted his head.

Gazed deep into his eyes. "Yes," it whispered. "You are broken."

Harry shook his head fiercely in denial. Set his teeth upon the gnawed skin of his lips. "_No."_

The grip tightened dangerously, and the Dark pressed in angrily? sadly? worriedly? "_Yes,_" it enforced. "Do not lie to me," it said, and Harry felt the pulsating threat of it, felt it press against his neck; heard the weak _thump-thump-thumping _of his heart.

He swallowed. "Yes," he rasped, "broken like glass."

There was stillness. "Yet - "

"Yet," Harry agreed, inhaling with relief.

"Your shards are sharp;" - it peered at him - "deadly." It gave a full-throated laugh. "_Gryffindor,_" it howled, "a lion! No, child; a snake in the lion's den."

Harry ripped his chin from the Dark's grip, his eyes carefully observing the tangible mass of space. "I - I - it's - " he stuttered. He felt … stupid. Like a fool. His whole life he'd been an _idiot! _It was all there in front of him, and he'd missed it. Ignored it, perhaps.

The Dark launched itself away from him, clamouring. Twitchily, it jerked. "Again? Again?" it yowled childishly.

Harry stumbled backwards. "What do you mean?"

There were teeth. Long, glowing incisors flashing in a predatory grin. "Oh, you know," it simpered hypnotically. With great amusement, it tutted. "I told _you _… " it said, "don't _lie to me._"

He clenched his fists, anger pounding through him. _Enough! No more of this! _he shouted silently. "_No!"_ he screamed, rushing forwards into the all-consuming black. "I DON'T KNOW! I. Don't. _Know!" _his voice echoed evermore - '_don't-know-don't-know!'_

There was deafening silence. It weighed upon him, louder than any shriek. Chuckles, slow and quiet at first, grew louder. "Yes … " the Dark smiled, "not broken."

Harry breathed heavily. Licking his lips nervously, the adrenaline fleeing, he asked once more, "What did you mean?"

"To go back," it sang, "to the beginning. Where it all began. When the clock struck midnight on your eleventh birthday."

Harry opened his mouth. Shock coursed through him, and he asked _Can you do that? _At least, he meant to. Instead, what came out was, "Who are you?"

The Dark grew and shuddered. "My darling child," it laughed, "I am your Inheritance."

He gaped wordlessly. (_Stupidly, _sneered his mind.) "What - no - but - _what?_"

"Only for you," it assured him. "From the very beginning, the Fates decided that _I _was to be your Inheritance. In the future the universe will know your claim … but time does not exist here, in the in-between, and so I say; you, child, are mine, and I yours."

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Hear. Taste. Feel. "You never said," he struggled, "who you are."

The Dark thrummed thoughtfully. "Who am I?" it mused. "I am your power. Your birthright. Your second chance. That is all you need to know." It turned away from him, and he felt it carefully pulling each tendril of Darkness from his body, his soul, spirit, mind, magic. Felt it as it readied to leave.

"Wait!" Harry called after it desperately. "Please! I - thank you - _thank you!" _

It paused, and tilted its head, and so quietly that not even Harry heard, murmured, "You are welcome, my Master … "

And so Death left, the dust of stars swirling in its wake, clouding Harry James Potter over, hiding his lost expression.

.

.

.

An indefinable time later, a small, knobbly-kneed, black-haired boy with bright emerald eyes snapped awake, blearily taking in a messily-drawn birthday cake, outlined in dust. He checked Dudley's watch, read _12:01, _and patted down his malnourished body. His eleven-year-old body.

Yes. Again. He'd show them … show them all the sharp shard of glass that they'd made him.

_Again. _He smiled, smiled so wide his cheeks ached. _A chance to make it worth it._

He inhaled.

Exhaled.

And let childish glee take over. Let the thought thrum: not survive. _Live. _

"_BOOM!" _the door to the shack on the rock shook. Hagrid was here. _"BOOM!" _it crashed down.

_It begins again. _

* * *

"

_if you want to write a negative review, don't tickle me gently with your aesthetic displeasure about my work. Unleash the goddamn Kraken_

_-scott lynch_

"


	2. The Demons

**Survival**

**II**

Diagon Alley

…

..

.

"Ollivander's has been around since B.C," Harry spoke quietly.

The wandmaker turned a curious eye on him, his gnarled fingers absentmindedly stroking the white stubble that littered his jawline. "Indeed," murmured Ollivander. "Your _astute _observation - ?" Harry wasn't sure if he was being made fun of, or if the man was actually surprised that he thought the fact noteworthy enough to comment on.

Harry gently pushed the hovering tape measurer away from his nostrils. "Why, then - should the wands not hold ancient secrets?"

Ollivander turned away so that the young boy wouldn't see his delighted smile. "My dear Mr Potter," he began, "what sort of secrets would they be if I simply told you?"

Harry grinned slightly. "What good is a secret if no-one knows it?"

Ollivander hobbled back to the boy, wrinkled hands clutching a long, thin box. "Touché," he admitted, then drew himself together. "Now, Mr Potter, simply take the wand and give it a wave," he ordered, lifting the box's lid to reveal a thickened mahogany twig, whittled into shape.

Harry obliged, stretching out pale fingers. He grasped the wand, lifted it and gave it an indifferent wave. Sparks shot out and fizzled out of existence. The wand melted, flopping over so much so as some such dying fish.

Ollivander frowned. "Oh, dear."

"Quite," Harry agreed. "Perhaps something with a little more … finesse?"

"_Finesse!_" crackled the wandmaker. He clutched his middle, the box tumbling to the floor. "_Finesse!_" he yowled.

Harry frowned. "Mr Ollivander - "

"Mr Potter," Ollivander rebutted, eyes swimming with mirth. "This shop is a _Maker of Fine Wands. _I assure you, we do … _finesse,_" he smothered a laugh and retreated into the lopsided aisles of wands, muttering and tutting as he shoved boxes aside in his search.

Harry didn't see what was so funny.

"Aha!" crowed the old man as he hurried towards the young wizard. "Try this!" He brandished a wand to the slightly bewildered boy. "Nine inches, somewhat bendy, with Siren hair, enwrapped in pine."

Subsequently, a slight quake occurred at their feet, and Ollivander snatched the wand back. "I thought for sure …" he muttered furiously. "The control Sirens exert on their victims … and … " He eyed the wand thoughtfully, realisation dawning. "Unless …" He snuck a peek at the Boy-Who-Lived's famous scar. "Perhaps … just maybe … ."

Ollivander coughed and gripped yet another box, this one held carefully, as if it were fragile. Lifting the lid, he offered the wand to Harry, the motion the epitome of worshipful devotion. "Holly and Phoenix feather," he said, "eleven inches …" he breathed, anticipation lining his shoulders.

Harry stifled a smile. He leaned forward, the tape at his shoulder leaning with him, and reached for the wand. His fingers hovered lovingly over it, a remnant from the past, and then, with one quick, desperate motion, he plucked up the wand and gave it a wave -

Nothing happened. Not a bang, not a shimmer, not a spark. Harry wilted.

"It didn't work," he said dumbly. "I thought - "

"Yes, well, so did I," said Ollivander gruffly. "Never-mind then! Tricky customer, eh?" He seemed disappointed, but also overwhelmingly excited, like some genius mathematician finally presented with a worthy problem, a challenge to defeat.

Harry tried to shake off his stupor, and failed. "But - " he murmured. "My wand - "

Ollivander paused, then set a gentle hand on the distraught boy's shoulder. Then, speaking quickly and with an almost frantic energy, he said, "Mr Potter, the wand chooses the wizard. Holly is a wand-wood well-suited for those of whom are greatly protective, yet somewhat … _temperamental … _shall we say … ? The Phoenix feather almost detached; an odd combination, indeed. _The wand chooses the wizard," _he repeated, "and this is not the wand for you! Oh no. You see, Mr Potter, people change, and the wands, in their infinite wisdom, know this. Quasi-sentient, did you know? I suspect not. _Never fear. _We will find you a wand, and what an adventure it will be; I am almost certain of it." He gave Harry a crazed smile, washed-out eyes shining.

As he walked off, Harry could've sworn he heard Ollivander say: "The wizard changes; the wand changes."

And so it went. Beech; Yew; Blackthorn; Willow; Walnut; Vine; Acacia; Cedar; Ash … none fit, not with Basilisk fang nor Dragon heartstring; not Veela hair nor Thestral tail hair. It seemed hopeless.

"You may be my trickiest customer yet," Ollivander admitted, sagging against a dangerously large pile of boxes and shelves. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and he was breathing deeply, his eyes flickering from Harry to the shelves, Harry to the shelves, back and forth, back and forth. He seemed possessed. "The wand … " he whispered intently. Suddenly he stood erect, and demanded Harry's attention: "Mr Potter, explain yourself."  
Harry blinked. "Excuse me, sir?"

Ollivander cracked his neck and gestured. "Your personality, Mr Potter! I must admit, never before have I struggled so … Not even with your mother, of whom I originally offered Vine, only for her to leave with Willow." He paused, a somewhat nostalgic look on his face. "She was quiet … highly intelligent … and your father; _oh your father!" _he laughed softly, the sound akin to cracking parchment. "I knew the moment I sold him that wand that he was a prankster at heart." His eyes caught Harry's. "But _you, _Mr Potter … You are like water; your surface clear, your depths untold." Ollivander swayed and then hovered over Harry. "I cannot see _you … _I look, and you are small and green-eyed; I look, and you are serious, quiet … You've said only a handful of sentences in" - he cast a quick _Tempus _\- "three hours. I look, and you are mature and reserved - yet … yet …" he floundered. "There is something in your face … a mark … a scar …"

Harry uncomfortably shifted and brushed his hair over his lightning bolt scar, only to have his hand slapped away by the wandmaker.

"Not _that _scar, boy!" he snapped. Ollivander's eyes grew unfocused. "The mark of …" he sucked in a lungful of breath, "of _Death!" _He bared his yellowed teeth.

Panic clawed at Harry. _He can't know, _he frantically assured himself. "I survived the Killing Curse -" he attempted, and received an amused, annoyed look in return.

"Hmm …" Ollivander rocked back on his heels. "I know just the wand … " His tailcoat fluttered as he spun away.

Harry stared after him blankly for a moment, then quickly followed, his feet barely a whisper of noise. "Where are we going?"

Ollivander waved his hands wildly. "What can I say, m'boy?" He turned a mischievous smile on Harry. "Where are _any _of us going?"

They entered into the back room of the shop. A fine layer of dust coated the creaking floors, and Harry held back a cough. Ollivander seemed unaware of his surroundings, his watery eyes peeled as he knelt in the gloom, hands scuffling hysterically at the edges of the floorboards.

"Sir?"

There was no reply.

Abruptly, like a dog sighting its prey, Ollivander sprung into action, the filth of the room billowing. The floors shuddered as two panels were peeled from their resting grounds, moaning. The wandmaker cast the floorboards to the side, leather shoes glinting as they pivoted with the motion of their movements.

"Come," ordered Ollivander as he disappeared into the hole in the floor he'd revealed.

Harry stood still. There was silence as he breathed. He felt something, then, in that room. That room with four walls and one door. A sort of … terrible urgency … the kind one might feel in the middle of the night, for no good reason at all; the one which steals about, borne of the buzzing in one's ears and the full emptiness in one's chest. How horrible it was, to feel that weight, that full darkness, like some poor, cursed creature only now realising how _pathetic _its existence was, how sad the picture its pitiful form depicted.

And then he dropped down into the hidden room, gravity made redundant by the heaviness of his heart.

What destiny, what prophecy, indeed.

And so it was that Harry followed Ollivander, torches lighting his way through the stone corridors beneath the wand shop, towards the weapon that would guide that _terrible urgency. _

"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter."

"I know," said Harry, black hair falling into his eyes, "but I fear this wand" - he lifted it from Ollivander's hands - "is the sort that is made of the stuff of legends."

The wandmaker grinned, and when he did, Harry observed how the skin around his eyes and mouth formed burrows, and the mischievousness of his nature grew in leaps and bounds. "My dear Mr Potter," he said, "never fear; no wood and no manipulation of an extended aide can make a legend, for a legend is itself already inherent, merely waiting to be whittled from its prison."

Harry smiled absently. He had no clue what _that _meant. "Begging your pardon - "

"All I mean is that you are what you are, no matter what you bear."

Harry held aloft the wand. In the dim light, it shone like the Northern star. He spoke in a hushed voice. "But you said the wand chooses the wizard. Is this wand not a legend, and thereby I, by means of association?"  
"Careful, Mr Potter," said Ollivander darkly, "that you do not become the demon which haunts each of us."

And to this, there was no reply.

* * *

_Author's note:_

Why have I not described the wand? I do not yet know what it will be. Although I have an idea … Suggestions, please?

Questions?

This was supposed to be a one-shot, but I love the idea of back-in-time Harry and I landed up typing this little piece … should I continue? Or leave it as is, the mystery of Harry Potter labyrinthine in complexity?

Yes, I am aware I skipped ahead in time. I wrote a piece of fanfic on Harry entering Diagon Alley, but I didn't like it, so I scrapped it. Do you have anything specific you want to occur?

* * *

_"_

_t__here are devilish thoughts_

_even in the most angelic minds_

_-rachel wolchin_

"


	3. The Daughter

**Survival **

**III**

Allyn Evannes

…

..

.

Harry smiled gently and lowered the gleaming wand. "Please don't take me seriously, Mr Ollivander. I have no desire to be the next Dark Lord."

Ollivander _hmm_ed thoughtfully and stabbed his wand into the air, the _Lumos _at its tip a soft glow. "Be that as it may, Mr Potter, that wand is powerful, and you'd best be careful what your intentions are - even the ones you do not yet know of." He _tch_ed. "But I am getting ahead of myself, you see. I know that you are not Him."

Harry sighed. There were always parallels between he and Tom Riddle, were there not? Orphaned and abused. Dark-haired and pale. Slytherin aspects. "What is it?" he asked abruptly.

Ollivander lit up. "O! the wand, you surely mean." He turned on his heel and started retracing his steps. "A lovely wand," he began, "truly a masterwork. It was one of my favourites for the sole reason of the wand-wood's history. Sad, though, terribly sad."

Harry stumbled slightly in the dark and protectively cradled the wand. "Interesting, then?"

"Very much so, my dear boy."

Light from the shop filtered down from above. The quiet muttering of a spell had Harry gasping slightly as he was jerked upwards to the first floor.

"My own spell," said Ollivander, grinning madly. "It's perfect for going _up, _but _down_ I have yet to perfect."

In silence Harry watched as Ollivander replaced the floorboards.

"It's silver lime, the wood," the wandmaker said abruptly. "The father of my father sold many silver lime wands - even to those who did not match with it, for the sole reason that at that time the wand was known for working powerfully with Seers and those adept at the mindarts - arts oft forgotten and powerful, such as the ever-tabboo Legilimency."

Ollivander stood up and motioned with a skeletal hand for Harry to follow him. The sound of their shoes kissing the floor was muted in the dusty shop.

"It was all about status, my dear boy. Status and privilege and who was powerful." Ollivander paused at the doorway and twisted round to face Harry. "But you see, Harry, those who bought silver limes were not all that their wand-wood demanded - Seers are very, very rare, and Legilimency is an art whose foundations are willpower - a thing wizards sorely lack. Bah!" he cried suddenly, "everything nowadays is a spell!" He drew up his wand - a stern, dark thing - and called out: "Cleaning? _Scourgify! Tergeo! _Light? _Lumos! Incendio!_ Summoning? _ACCIO!_" he roared.

Harry watched in disbelief at Ollivander's furious casting. "Sir?"

Ollivander lowered his wand and slumped against the doorframe. "I am sorry, my dear boy." He lifted pale eyes. "It is only that wands, an extension of oneself, have become a toy, a convenience." The wandmaker carefully slid his wand back into its holster. "They are molested. They are used like trivial playthings," he spat in disgust, "instead of _true magic! _Cleaning charms," he cried, "and hair charms and fragrance charms. Gone are the days," he whispered, "where magic was a sacred art and a revered gift."

Ollivander shook his head and perked up. "O! the wand core is simply fascinating, Mr Potter, very much so. Unicorn hair, Mr Potter," he gave a soft chuckle, "_willingly given. _How very strange, that you should have the wand-wood of, foremost, a Seer, and the wand core of a gentle, healing creature … melancholic is the second wand core, and that it matches you. I am sorry."

Harry stared down at his wand. It was certainly beautiful, he thought. It looked unbelievably fragile, the light from the windows easily penetrating it. He could see the unicorn hair stretching from the sharp tip of the wand to the handle - a glittering silver line that seemed almost alive, and thrummed, even now, with a strange sort of grief and happiness. Twelve inches. Very thin, though the handle was thicker and twisted like a gnarled root.

"See here," breathed Ollivander, stepping towards Harry to trace a grey finger along the twisted handle of his wand, "that there holds tears."

Harry looked up through soot-black lashes. "Phoenix?" he guessed.

Ollivander frowned. "If only. No, my dear boy. The tears of a mother."

Harry reared back, the wand slipping from his fingers. He saw red hair, and heard screams. He smelled death and felt pain, and sadness, and sacrifice.

Ollivander's hand shot out, lightning fast, and snatched the wand before it clattered to the floor. "Careful, boy!" he hissed sharply. "This wand was Allyn Evannes' before it was yours. You didn't think it was hidden beneath the shop for no reason than a little mystery in an old man's life, did you?"

Harry felt dumbstruck. Sickened. The dust in the air swirled like ashes.

"The Ollivanders owed a debt to the Evannes family a long time ago," Ollivander began, fingers wrapping round the fragile wand. "A deed that does not concern you. All they asked in return was that their daughter's wand was kept hidden and safe until it was matched again." He returned the wand to Harry, who took it with shame at his carelessness.

Harry licked his lips and swallowed. "Why not keep it upstairs, where it had more chance of finding a wizard or witch?"

Ollivander snorted unbecomingly. "Let us simply say that the Evannes were once well known, and well-loved." He lifted a hand to his wrinkled face and sighed. "This wand would be coveted not out of rightness, but of wrongness."

"I don't understand."

The wandmaker huffed. "What have I said, Mr Potter, of wizards? They covet power and privilege. They covet _status. _And the wand of Allyn Evannes would bring it."

Ollivander left the room, cloak brushing his ankles. Harry followed him.

"How so?" Harry asked. He could still hear a soft, loving lullaby, and feel the brush of lips on his forehead, but the story helped banish the memories. It drew his curiosity and his attention. It stilled the slight shaking of his hands. "What happened?"

The wandmaker sighed. He abandoned the stack of boxes he'd been futilely attempting to straighten. "She was their only child. So very excited to learn magic. Her parents had a wand specially made for her, awaiting only a core of her choice. She died. I will not tell you how. Her mother buried her and, in the ways of wizarding society, completed the wand core."

"With a mother's tears and unicorn hair," Harry whispered.

"Yes. It is said all heard the mother's broken wails that night. They rose up and up and up." Ollivander smiled grimly. "Not every mother, Mr Potter, could save their only child. Now leave, dear boy. I care not for your money. The debt is paid in full."

* * *

"_no one ever told me that grief felt so like fear_

_—__c. s. lewis_"


	4. The Departure

**Survival **

**IV**

The Hogwarts Express

…

..

.

_Finally, _Harry thought with anticipation. _Hogwarts. _Although he'd never expected to have a do-over chance at his life and fix all the stupid things he'd done, nor did he expect to feel this nervous and excited - he'd lived this before, hadn't he, so why was he so jittery? Maybe it was because he was tired. Exhausted, more like. The Dursleys had not been impressed with his "freakishness", and his "freaky school". They'd been even _less _impressed that he hadn't cowered or flinched in the face of their anger and starvation, which, he could admit, was stupid of him, but he was practically grown (mentally) and they didn't scare him. Not anymore. That didn't change he being tired (chores from six in the morning until seven at night did that to a physically young boy) nor the pain on his back, which boasted dozens of bruises from dear Uncle Vernon's 'concerned discipline'. Funny, he thought, how doing absolutely nothing could so enrage the man. _"Beat the freakishness out", indeed. _

He gave a grunt as he tugged on his Hogwarts trunk. It was heavy, especially now with a scrawny eleven-year-old body. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be so small. Defenceless.

It was noisy on Platform 9 and 3/4 as witches, wizards and muggles bustled around, giving goodbye kisses or threatening warnings of expectations they ordered their children to complete. Harry kept his head down, pleased with the plain black hat that hid his scar, and the simple muggle clothes that declared him no-one of interest. He'd be more cautious, now. His hands were sweaty on the handle of the trunk, both from the exertion of tugging on it and sheer terror that he bullheadedly ignored.

He'd been through a war. His mind was screaming at him. His wand was heavy in its holster. He had to continually remind himself that he could draw it at a moment's notice. _But I won't have a moment. _

"'Ey, mate," he heard a mischievous chime, synchronised perfectly.

_The twins, _he thought, _come to my rescue just as before. _He looked up, breathless. There they were, grinning madly like fools with their faces still determinedly gripping onto baby fat. "Hello," he answered.

It was Fred that stepped towards him first. "Do you need a hand, ickle firstie? You look like you're struggling."

He gave a reserved smile and kept his body compact, displaying a loose body language to ward off any attention - he needed to be known, but in a way that _made _knowing him redundant. He had to be a someone who was a no-one. He _needed _people to underestimate him, so that when the time came, he could do something. He could save them. He could _help. _"Yes, please," he said in a soft voice, lowering his head shyly. He couldn't control his nervousness, his utter giddiness completely (both of them were here, alive! Whole!).

George gently ushered Harry out of the way and then he and Fred lifted the trunk onto the Hogwarts Express.

"Thank you," Harry said, and meant it. They had always been kind to him.

One of the twins - he couldn't see who as he was too busy eyeing a smirking Malfoy Senior - playfully draped an arm over his shoulders, thin from malnourishment. "No problem, mate. Anytime!"

They left then, Harry catching the words "Lee", "tarantula" and "bloody awesome!"

He sighed and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. Walking through the train, he felt almost nauseated by his classmates. They were all so _young. _

Eventually, he couldn't take it anymore, and besides, the train was due to leave soon, so he grabbed an empty compartment and sat down. Closing the door, he pulled out his wand and eyed it. _Did it have the Trace? _Deciding not to test his luck, he slid it up his sleeve and back into its holster. No point in trying - at least not now.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, his injuries stinging him awake but his exhaustion pulling him to sleep.

.

.

.

_A terrified screech. Hermione. Porcelain sinks flying like doves, soaring through the air. Water spurting up with the same splendour of fireworks. _

_And towering over it all, swaying and snorting, the troll. The girl screamed again, throwing herself to the side, away from the troll. _

_It was massive, its head inches from the ceiling. It swung its club idly, muttering. The stench of it made Harry's eyes water. _

_The boy next to him shuddered, pale hands clutching his wand in a death grip. "What do we do?" Ron cried. _

_But it was changing. The scene. The memory. Harry heard Hermione's terrified shrieking warble. Ron's white face distorted. The sink and the floor and the water and the troll - it was all warping. Rippling furiously like it was only a photograph, now submerged beneath water. _

_This memory was changing. _

_This memory was becoming something else. _

.

.

.

Harry jerked awake, gasping. And the train lurched on.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

It didn't feel right to add more here, so I'm just posting this (sorry). I'll post another (longer) chapter soon. I'm going to gloss over scenes that don't interest me, or that I feel have been done before. If this bothers enough people, say so and I'll write them. Also, I need **what House Harry should be in **before I can update, as the next chapter will have the Sorting. Opinions, people?

* * *

_"__It is both a blessing_

_and a curse_

_to feel everything_

_so very deeply."_

_-dj_


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